AOPA Pilot Magazine - June 2019 - 33

He was several years older than me, with a
demeanor austere to the point of forbidding
(well-practiced, I'm sure). When he first
initiated a conversation with me in a local
bookstore-where we nearly collided in the
history section-I was caught off guard.
It was common knowledge that he was
a commercial pilot and the owner of an airplane. I couldn't fathom why a person with
such credentials would make his home in
our humble community. It seemed like a
valid question, so I asked him. He informed
me (while maintaining a straight face) that
even pilots must live somewhere. I couldn't
fault his logic.
When he discovered that I was a freelance writer, he pointed me in the direction
of a possible story about a restaurant, some
30 miles north of where we lived, situated
near a skydiving business and boasting its
own airstrip. I was intrigued by the story
idea, but even more so by Curt. He wasn't
as scary as I'd believed. From him, I soon
learned that pilots are people, too, just people who aren't afraid to fly. It was rather
eye-opening.
As I got to know him, Curt struck me
as the responsible type, so I wondered if
it might be safe to ride in his airplane-a
novel concept, since the very idea of flying
had always filled me with terror. But, now,
I saw the possible opportunity to overcome
that fear.
I gave it lots of thought. To fly, or not
to fly, became the question. Not quite as
existential as the one posed by Hamlet,
yet still one I wrestled with. I decided
that, yes, I was brave enough to leave the
ground, which then begged the question of etiquette. Curt had never formally
offered me a ride in his airplane, so would
it be presumptuous to ask for one?
A publisher assured me that all pilots
like it when people express interest in
their airplanes, so I called him. True to
his nature, Curt's reply was unrevealing.
Although he didn't sound overjoyed at the
prospect of taking me up for my maiden
flight, neither did he seem put off by my

request. He simply instructed me to meet
him at the local airport.
While driving the short distance, my
heart was in my throat from both fear and
excitement. It occurred to me that I had no
idea what sort of airplane he owned. Not
that it mattered, of course, since, presumably, any size would get me off the ground.
I first thought his was the small jet
parked to the side of the runway, which
elicited a chuckle from him.
"Nope, it's this one," he said, as he led
me to an Aviat Husky A1-B, discreetly
marked and impeccably maintained.
Per his instructions, I ducked below the
right wing, then performed the sleight of
feet and feat of agility required to procure
my entrance into the narrow rear seat. After
contending with a bewildering assortment
of straps and buckles, listening to his speech
informing me of the whereabouts of the
barf bag and the emergency exit, donning
a headset, and taking several deep breaths
to steady my nerves, I felt ready for takeoff.
After positioning himself in the front
seat and adjusting his own headset, Curt
called, "Clear," and the engine roared to
life. I was committed. No time now for
second thoughts. Taxiing down the runway presented me with the opportunity for
some last-minute qualms, but not for long.
We turned, picked up speed going in the
opposite direction, then soared skyward.
My fear was immediately a thing of
the past. The exhilaration of becoming
airborne was like nothing I'd known. That
thrill is but a small part of the pleasure
of flight, though, I've since discovered.
Leveling out and flying effortlessly above
familiar terrain, while viewing it from a
higher perspective, strikes a chord deep
within me. Peace reigns. Worries can't
reach me when I'm high above them.
Why hadn't I made this discovery when
I was much younger? I wondered. It might
have spared me a few gray hairs.
SHEILA HARRIS, a freelance writer, lives in

southwest Missouri.

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AOPA Pilot Magazine - June 2019

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